The Domestic Detective: A Drabble Collection
by englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: A consecutive series of fluffy drabbles about life on Baker Street. Sherlock/John friends-to-lovers. No angst, just domestic Johnlock happy times. Rating starts at G and will work its way all the way up. (Which is to say, rating is for later chapters.)
1. Dim Sum

"It was a good shot," Sherlock admitted between bites of steamed dumpling. John turned away, a humble grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You know," the blogger said, "people don't shoot strange cabbies for men they've just met. In their real lives."

"Don't they?" the detective asked without looking up from his lo mein. "What do they do, then, _in their_ _real lives_?"

"Have jobs. Spend time with friends." John lowered his voice. "Go on dates."

Sherlock glanced up at the candle on the table, then over to John, and finally back at his meal. He smiled.

"Dull."


	2. Pants

Sherlock eyed John's worn green jumper. "I suspect even Susan – "

"Sarah."

" – has higher expectations for date night."

The older man maintained his absent gaze onto the bustle of Friday evening Baker Street. "Apparently, being nearly murdered by Chinese antique smugglers puts her off," he explained sarcastically.

Something below caught his attention. "Why is the delivery bloke from my favorite pizza…"

Sherlock was already waving cash in John's direction.

"Of course." John took the money and headed for the stairwell, shouting over his shoulder, "Why exactly do _I_ have to – "

"Pants, Jawn."

 _Right,_ John giggled despite himself. _Pants._


	3. Wool

John opened the morning paper with a flick of his wrist and took a long draw from his steaming mug.

"Day?" came a muffled voice from the sofa.

"Sunday," John answered cheerfully, glancing briefly at his flatmate, then doing a double take. " What are you…?" he queried, noticing the cream-colored lump under the detective's head.

No response. He walked to the coffee table and sat facing his flatmate's back.

"Sherlock, I know you're awake. Are you… sleeping on my jumper?"

"No."

"Sherlock."

"Technically yes. But it's not…"

"What?"

"It's… for a case."

John stood, paused a moment, then indulged the impulse to tousle those silky curls before returning to his tea. Assuming he was once again engrossed in the paper, Sherlock buried his face the blogger-scented wool, and sighed.


	4. Milk, Part 1

John walked through the sitting room door, dropped the soggy carrier bags on the floor, and sighed.

"Milk. Forgot the milk. Ow, hey!"

"Oh, John," Sherlock looked up from his book, startled. "Why are you all wet?"

Before John could remove his jacket, something blue and sticky just below his lip caught the detective's eye. He leaned down for closer examination. _Unlikely to be harmful, but still…_ Just as he rubbed his thumb over John's chin to remove the substance, the shorter man jerked his head upward, closing the distance between their lips. Sherlock pulled away in shock.

"J-Jawn?"

After a moment of confusion, John noticed the thumb now covered in blue goo, and dashed down the stairs into the icy curtain of rain.


	5. Milk, Part 2

London was dark by the time John worked up the nerve to return to Baker Street. As he hung his coat upon the hook, now heavily soaked with winter rain, he listened. Nothing. _Right. Good._

Moving cautiously into the kitchen, he filled the kettle. He could face this. He could face Sherlock. So long as it could be done after tea. As he reached for a mug, a torn piece of notebook paper fluttered to the floor.

 _J –_

 _At Bart's, expect will be quite late. Fresh milk in fridge._

 _–_ _S_

Opening the refrigerator, John stared at the unopened, uncompromised carton of milk on the door. No bouquet of roses had ever spoken such volumes.


	6. Invitation

A case had come in and it'd taken a full three nights to catch the culprit. In an attempt to counterbalance his severe lack of sleep, John Watson unwound in a scalding shower until he could hardly breathe for the steam filling the room. Thoroughly relaxed and bathrobe-clad, he took a few steps toward the kitchen and promptly dropped the towel he'd been using to dry his _definitely not greying_ hair.

Sherlock, seeming to not have slept at all, jumped up and rushed toward the doorway.

"Oh, good, John, about time, I need – "

His blogger slowly stood to face him. Disheveled greying-blond hair, skin pink from the shower. An easy smile spread across the older man's face.

It was all the invitation Sherlock needed.


	7. Kiss

Before either knew exactly what was happening, Sherlock had forced his flatmate against the wall, one arm wrapped around his waist, tongue flicking devilishly into his mouth.

After a few minutes, John managed to come up for air. "Sherl – "

"Mmm."

"Are you sure – "

"S'long as you don't expect me to… you know…"

 _You know? No, I don't know. Does he not want a relationship? Or for this to be public? Or is it… does he not want to go… further?_

"No… I… I don't know."

Sherlock sighed and took half a step back. "John," he said seriously, "you can't possibly expect me to _keep_ remembering to buy milk."


	8. No Excuses

"Let's go, Jawn," Sherlock whined. The case was barely a three.

The consulting detective tugged John's sleeve at the wrist, dislodging his hand from his jacket pocket. He slipped his own cool, dry fingers between the blogger's warmer ones, hailed a taxi with his free hand, and slid into the back seat without breaking the connection.

Only John caught the wide-eyed expression on DI Lestrade's face as they departed the crime scene, and was therefore unsurprised to hear the message tone on his mobile a few minutes later.

 _Pub at 7. No excuses._


	9. Violin

John pulled his jacket on and straightened his sleeves beneath it. Reaching for the door handle, he tried one more time.

"I need to know what you want me to say."

Sherlock's eyes rolled dramatically. "Just tell Gavin the truth."

"And that would be?"

"That's none of his business," the detective snapped, facing the window and examining his violin.

"You know that won't work," John sighed.

"Fine, then. Deny it."

John shook his head wearily, noting that he would definitely be late. "If that's what you want."

He was answered by moody, overly-complicated tune. But just as he shut the door behind him, he heard a sad voice murmur, "It's what you all want."


	10. Pub

"Seriously? No, I don't believe it. I mean I do believe it, but… I don't believe it."

John shrugged at his half-empty third pint. "Well, Greg. Believe it."

"But how can you… I mean, he's not even… well, ok, I suppose it's possible, but… Sorry mate, I just…" Lestrade gave a low whistle and took a long sip of his beer.

John looked absently at the match on the tv above the bar. "Just do me a favor, yeah? Maybe don't mention this to anyone yet? Things are still – I just need a bit more time."

"'Course, mate. _Shit._ " Lestrade shook his head and joined John in pretending to watch rugby. _Shit…_


	11. Truth

"I know you're awake," he directed at the Sherlock-shaped lump on the sofa.

"M'not. Mind palace. Go 'way," came the petulant response through the fluffy indigo duvet.

"Sherlock," John tried again, hanging his coat and willing the lazy git to roll over.

"Whaddyou tell 'im."

"The truth."

Sherlock sat bolt upright, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at his blogger. "What truth?" he asked cautiously.

"You know," John tilted his head slightly toward his flatmate. "That I'm falling in love with you. Tea?"

He strode off into the kitchen, rather pleased with himself. It was a rare moment when Sherlock Holmes could be rendered speechless.


	12. Fine

Sherlock sat back from his microscope. "John. I, um, what you… said. Before."

"Mhmm," John replied without looking up from the skillet. "Before" had been a few weeks ago – _almost a month,_ John suddenly realized. After some initial awkwardness, the pair had resumed normal life at Baker Street, albeit in rather closer proximity.

"I've thought about it, and it…"

"I caught you off-guard," John stated matter-of-factly, turning to face Sherlock.

The detective flinched in confirmation. "I want you to know that I'm… it's not that I don't also…"

"I know," John interrupted.

"I know you _know…_ "

John placed his hand on a thin shoulder. "I do know. And it's fine."

"Well of course it's _fine._ "

"Sherlock," John insisted, tipping the man's atypically unshaven chin upward, forcing their eyes to meet. "It's all fine."


	13. Inside

John's eyes drifted down to that pale pink cupid's bow. The room faded around him until all that remained was a plush, slightly trembling lower lip. He heard his name, a hushed echo, as the tip of his desperate tongue slid across that perfect lip and into a warm, eager mouth.

He sank slowly onto Sherlock's lap, only aware of the feel of soft curls and sensitive scalp beneath his fingertips, of the inimitable moan barely escaping from his partner's throat before John greedily swallowed it whole, wanting everything _everything_ of Sherlock inside him.

 _Inside._ The word played on a loop in his mind. It was not something he had ever desired, ever even considered, before. But now – _now_ – there could be nothing he craved more.


	14. Porcelain

Swanlike neck arched toward his bedroom ceiling, Sherlock gasped for air. How they had even made it to the bed in a tangle of limbs and lips and lust was a mystery. He was writhing, griping the sheets, and John had not even touched him yet. A strong, insistent tongue traced over his Adam's apple, pressed into his pulse point, wrapped around his earlobe before John bit down with a low growl.

"Jawwwwn… Jawn, I…"

War-hardened hands slid under the hem of his fading grey t-shirt, inching slowly over every muscle, lifting the cotton hindrance up Sherlock's torso and out of the way. John grabbed hold of the fabric bundled around that impossibly long neck and drew his soon-to-be lover toward him, rolling his hips teasingly as he straddled the detective's lap.

Somehow – Sherlock still didn't seem to grasp the physics of any of this – dressing gown, t-shirt, and army jersey had all been discarded onto the floor, leaving Captain John Watson's chest flush against his own, forcing him back onto the mattress, a practiced tongue winding it's way back down that endless expanse of porcelain.


	15. Wait

"I want you." John's breath was hot on his neck. "I need you."

Sherlock arched his back involuntarily, the words sinking into his mind as fingertips sank beneath the elastic of his pants.

"I need you, Sherlock. All of you. Every last inch."

The detective's eyes popped open at that. He couldn't mean…

"If you're willing. Now let's see what I'm up against," John added playfully, tugging expensive fabric away from jutting hipbones.

A sudden rush of fear gripped the younger man, sending him rushing toward the headboard as if he'd been scalded.

"Wait!" he almost shouted, failing to mask his panic. He exhaled shakily. "Wait."


	16. Confession

John was totally bewildered. What did I… I barely even said… Maybe he doesn't really want this… or… me?

"No, John," Sherlock answered, "it's not that."

Bloody mind-reader.

"It's not my fault that line below your left eye crinkles when you… Not the point."

John laid a light hand on the other's knee.

"Care to let me in on 'the point' then?" He inquired quietly.

"The point is," Sherlock began, biting intensely on his lower lip and addressing the nightstand. "The point is, I haven't… well, it's just transport, isn't it, and since no one ever… not that I've been saving myself or any of that sentimental trash, but in the course of events…"

A broad grin broke across John's face. For all the boffin's bravado, it came down to something this simple in the end.

"You're a virgin."


	17. Ink

"Now what?"

"Do you trust me?"

"I suppose."

John sighed. Good enough. "Take off my pants."

"I don't know that either of us are exactly – "

"Oh just… bloody well do it, ok?"

Sherlock considered the wall for a moment, then slid between John's legs and unceremoniously removed his boxers, tossing them aside.

"Do you see?"

"Yes, John. I adequately killed the mood for both of us, and thank you so much for underscoring that fact."

"You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

"John, I fail to see how insulting me at this juncture can in any way – "

"LOOK." John pointed to the inside of his right thigh. There, in the detective's very own careless script, were the initials 'SH.'


	18. Why

Sherlock rubbed a calloused thumb across the tattooed flesh, not acknowledging the tear that had fallen on the spot a moment before.

"John, I…"

"I've never done this with a man before, so in a way, it's the first time for both of us."

"Is this your only… you don't have any other tattoos currently, but have you ever – "

John chuckled. "No, I have not had anyone else's name tattooed and removed."

Sherlock was silent for what felt to his blogger like an eternity. When he met John's gaze again, a trace of the earlier fear had returned.

"Why?"


	19. Promise

"Are you really ready to hear it?"

Another long pause.

"I… no. I don't think… Not yet, no."

While Sherlock returned to contemplating the unexpected promise – that's what it is, he realized – John trailed his index finger along a razorblade cheekbone. Just as his hand was about to trace the stubble along Sherlock's jaw, however, the face was gone.

There was a split second of confusion before John felt the pressure of a not-so-gentle tongue against his recently branded skin. He forced his head off the pillows and swallowed the moan rising in his throat.

"Sh-Sherl, you don't have to – "

The eyes that flicked up to his own had turned violently green. The sight of those otherworldly irises flashing behind a stray raven curl made John's already thickening cock jerk with desire.

John felt rather than saw Sherlock's smile, and as that increasingly-confident tongue rolled once more against his thigh, he managed one final coherent thought: he was worth the risk.


	20. Vatican Cameos

"You said…" John clamored for breath. "You said… never… did…"

 _Bloody Sherlock Holmes_ was playing him like a violin, every string taut, nearly ready to snap beneath his masterful hands. And mouth. _Oh god, how can he possibly… I'm not going to…_

"Stop, please, Sherlock!"

"Mmm," he hummed in response, sliding lower between the thighs now hooked over his slender shoulders. "John Watson begging. That's a sound I could get used to," he punctuated his point by dipping the tip of his tongue almost forcefully into John's wantonly stretching hole, earning him a high-pitched moan barely stifled by the other man's fist in his mouth.

"P-please, Sher… s-stop… I... V-Vatican Cameos!"

The detective giggled despite himself, rising up on his elbows to meet his lover's eye.

"Ok, I give. But surely we can do better than _that._ "


	21. Yes

He rested his head back onto the pillows with a contented sigh, relishing in the lingering taste of soft, pink lips – and a hint of himself, he though blushing.

"Now," Sherlock inquired, feigning patience poorly, "why did I stop?"

"When we were… in the kitchen. There was… I realized something that I've never wanted, and I…"

"Oh truly, John, it'd be quicker if I just deduced it. Considering the activities in which I was engaging, and your favorable responses to them – "

"That's an understatement," John chuckled nervously.

"If that's not what you were after, but it made you – oh. OH." The younger man's eyes grew wide, his mouth forming a perfect circle, while his blogger squirmed self-consciously beneath him.

"You… want me to…"

"Only," John sighed, trying to find someplace neutral to look and settling on a freckle near Sherlock's clavicle, "only if you wa- "

Seventy-eight kilos of consulting detective pinned him fiercely to the mattress as a desperate tongue sought admission once again to his (always) eagerly awaiting mouth.

 _Yes, John._

They both heard the answer, though not a word had been spoken.

 _Yes, yes, yes._


End file.
